


supernova arrowheads

by alynshir



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Second Person, Speculation, whee imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/pseuds/alynshir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of your time please, Miss Mahariel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	supernova arrowheads

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back, back, back, back again.
> 
> I do not own Dragon Age.

The quiet is the color of summer evenings, and your mind can think here. Maybe this is why you dislike it so much. Free access into your own head isn't something you really care much for. Too many bad memories. Too many things to blame yourself for. But your bones sing another song entirely, a song that has aggressive, rasping words telling you to set down your burdens and also sit your ass down on the ground and take a breather, and despite the discordance ringing through your mind you do it anyways, because a bone song will always overpower a mind song.

The ground is soft and for once not drenched with past rains, and you are grateful for that, because you never liked sitting on wet grass. The soft kiss of a warm wind ghosts over your flesh and trails down your skin, and you shiver not with chill but with irritation, because although your gooseflesh tells a different tale you do not want to be warm. Warm reminds you of him and you will not be reminded of him any more. His words are seared into the shell of your ears for the rest of your days as it is, and you refuse to allow anything more. The air ruffles your hair now, and you don't mind that nearly as much. Skin you cannot allow to be kissed by the wind, but hair can be tousled by zephyrs, who have innocent intent. They both make you feel alive, but only one makes you wish you were dead, and you cannot afford to die, at least not while you still hold up the sky. 

The sun drools golden into the jade leaves that surround you, and you wonder if the sun ever falters. It shines so brightly, so soundly, and you know you can always depend on it to lead you home. But home sometimes feels abstract to you, like flower-smoke that you can see and hear and taste but never truly touch before it vanishes into nothing. Does the sun have a home, too? Or is the sun's home merely stardust that it too can never touch before it is gone? A thought occurs to you as the intangible golden elixir coating the trees becomes amber, becomes cinnamon and paprika and embrium. Maybe the sun's home is the moon. Oh, but that seems altogether even more sad than the sun's home being untouchable, you think, because the moon always runs away, only sneaking into the sky when the sun has given up all hope. At least your home never runs away. It just...doesn't stay either. 

This, you think ruefully, is why you do not allow yourself freedom within your own head, ever. It is too dangerous for even you to explore, because if you are an expert at anything, it is taking the flickers of things gone wrong and shaking it up in a skull full of gunpowder. You cannot let your head fire, not today - not ever, really, but especially not today. You need to douse the supernova in your mind. You nock your bow and aim at the sun, which hangs on by seraphim-fingers to the horizon in the hopeful eyes that the moon - which you know hides in shadow this evening - will shine with doll skin. Maybe the sun will love you if you put it out of its misery. Maybe the sun will put you out of yours in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :) let me know what you thought!


End file.
